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BLUSH not! the rosy mantling blood disarms
Thy soft seductions of their pale sweet hue,
And - ere it vanish - thou canst not renew
The magic of thy face, when all its charms
Lurk there. At dawn the red sun's glory harms
The crimson spell that lightly veils the blue
Of dreamy dawn; red disenchants thee too.
Then let no blush arise in swift alarms,
For what could ever dare to hurt thee, sweet?
One treads not on a daisy, and the shower
Falls softly on the snowdrop's drooping head,
Falls sadly in the autumn on the dead
And fluttering roses; naught could hurt the flower
That hath all flowers clustering round her feet.
O. W.
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